


The Weight of the Wind

by lonelywalker



Category: Smallville
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-16
Updated: 2011-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-18 04:11:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/pseuds/lonelywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-<i>Rage</i>, there's still something between them…</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weight of the Wind

She's fallen into the habit of marking time recently, her days planned in advance on three separate calendars. Life as a farmer's wife had meant hard work, but it had been governed largely by daylight and the seasons rather than meetings scheduled down to the seconds on a watched clock. Her relatively new appointment as a state senator has given new purpose to her life, but it's also added limitations. Today has been the first since the spring that she had been able to settle back into simply being a mother, filling the house with the smells of a stuffed turkey and freshly baked pies, even if she occasionally had to cradle a phone between her cheek and shoulder as she chopped vegetables and wondered just how many places she would be setting at the table.

For a while, she had suspected that she might be alone, that Thanksgiving this year would be more of a memorial day for them – Clark brooding in his barn or exercising his anger on Metropolis thugs while she lit a candle and watched grainy old videotapes in tears. But she'd sent out invitations, pushing out against the gloom: one to Chloe, of course, and Lois, and whatever young men they might find fit to bring. And, after a moment's thought, one to Lionel as well, although she'd been given pause by both the idea that he'd surely be busy, and the brief horror of what kind of girlfriend he might think to bring along.

During the day, as she cooked and baked and enjoyed having streaks of sauce on her apron and hair that was surely a mess, things had seemed to be falling away around her. Jimmy, Chloe had reported breathlessly, was spending the holiday with family, and her father Gabe was busy with the new job of his that he was understandably desperate to keep. Lois, meanwhile, had left a series of voicemail messages about how, exactly, she was intending to disembowel Oliver Queen. And Lionel…

He's been wearing black a lot recently, she'd thought, seeing him at the door. He looks older, his face scarred by more than age, some fragments of grey in his hair. And perhaps it's that humanity in him that has made her so comfortable in his presence, comfortable enough that she instinctively smiles – no, _beams_ \- when she sees him. He comes in at the back door, now, feels at home in the kitchen. She lets him make his own coffee, pick his own colorful mug from the cabinet and use some of the milk Clark hasn't yet devoured. Sometimes she takes his hand when they're at social events together, the way she used to when he was blind and she his loyal assistant. At first it had been out of white-knuckled fear at striding into Metropolis society – how ridiculous she must have been, a rough-handed Smallville farmer wearing a gown only Lionel could afford – but he'd stroked his thumb over the back of her hand, and told her to breathe.

She's not breathing now.

It's been fifteen seconds since the door closed behind him – the last of her guests to leave, now that Lois and Oliver have rather drunkenly spilled into a limo, and Clark and Chloe have set off for the Planet in her dinky little car to do some additional research on yet another story. The table is still strewn with dirty dishes, half-empty glasses, leftovers Clark will be snacking on for a week… She should turn and busy herself with tidying up. The sauces will harden on the plates if she doesn't. They'll be difficult to clean if she waits for morning, and the entire room might stink by then. Besides, Lois had promised to call at nine, hangover permitting, and no doubt there'll be a press engagement to attend, a bill to read.

She gathers her cardigan around her as protection against the cold, and opens the door.

He's still standing there, only a few feet from the doorway, a shadowy figure with his coat wrapped around his slight frame, his head canted upwards slightly. Surely he must hear the door, but it's a moment before he turns, and she can see his smile in the light from the kitchen. "Martha…"

All night they've been wonderfully comfortable with each other. She had worried that he'd find any excuse not to come, but he had instead been early, bearing two bottles of very fine wine, and wearing a dark blue sweater she'd remembered to compliment. It hadn't been so much the sweater as seeing him in something more relaxed than a full business suit. Even when they've seen each other socially, it's tended to be in dress that's _more_ formal rather than less. Now, however, that comfort has somehow dissipated into the night air, and he's looking at her the way he had this morning, humbled by apology, and torn with lust.

"The stars are beautiful so far away from the city," he says, and he must have been rehearsing that line before she ever arrived because he doesn't stumble over the words. "The streetlights and skyscrapers do mother nature such a disservice."

She edges closer, the door shutting behind her. Sometimes it truly does take the perspective of an outsider to value the beauty of the Smallville landscape – or confront the pesky reality of mucking out cowsheds. "Don't let your investors hear you say that."

The smile reaches his eyes, and he looks up once again. "Oh, believe me, I'm struck by the beauty of man's work too. I really should spend more nights at the mansion, whenever Lex decides to abandon the country for more European adventure. Did you know I thought about building an observatory there once?"

"I think I prefer having the gardens," she says, crossing her arms, beginning to be chilled by the air. She enjoys it when he shares his idle thoughts and dreams with her, though, when the granite exterior is peeled away just a little so that she can find warmth in his eyes, and trust brewing in her heart.

He doesn't reply, but for the sight of his breath frozen in the air. He must still be captivated by the stars twinkling above. And now she says the phrase she's been turning over in her mouth all evening, ever since she examined the bottles he'd brought and impulsively hugged him out of gratitude. "You shouldn't drive. Not after you've been drinking."

It's a ridiculous statement, knowing him, and she feels far too much the caring mother he never had when she says it. She's seen him drink far more – and the hard stuff, too – and been as apparently sober as a stone pillar. But he does pay attention to her, at least. "I'll stay at the mansion," he says softly, as if appeasing a frightened old woman. "Lex can't be using that old guest house for anything but storage."

The mother in her would tut at him, tell him to stop being silly, and inform him of the vast range of sleeping facilities available within the Kent Farm. There's always the couch, if the barn is too cold and Clark is reluctant to give up his bedroom to yet another interloper. It isn't much, but it's warm and comfortable, and if the couch is large enough for Clark it'll be large enough for Lionel, even if Shelby decides to cozy up to the newcomer.

Something else in her makes her slip her hand into his, feeling the warmth of him just as they both realize how cold she truly is. "Have you ever seen Clark's telescope? It might be just the thing on such a clear night."

He's already taking off his coat, not even saying a word, when she stops him. If it reaches to his calves, on her it'll drag on the ground. She gives his hand a friendly tug instead. "It'll be warm in the barn."

She feels like a rebellious tomboy, tearing around the great outdoors at night with a friend, and perhaps she's going too far, has had too much to drink herself, but this has to be better than being safe indoors, and counting regrets by the second.

Before the first meteor shower, and even when Clark had been too small to be allowed to play near machinery (never mind that it couldn't hurt him, he could easily hurt _it_ ), the loft had been a place for her to sit with Jonathan and watch the sunset on their more romantic evenings. Tonight, Clark's books adorn most of the space, and she clears a heap of them from the couch as she gestures to the telescope. "I hope the clouds haven't come in already…"

She can almost feel his eyes on her back as she pushes a heap of laundry to one side and discovers the space heater she had been sure was here somewhere, but when she turns he's examining the telescope. "This really is quite good," he says, a note of surprise in his tone as he aims it heavenwards. "I must confess to having forgotten much of my basic astronomy, though. When I was a boy, before most of Metropolis was developed, we'd lie on the dock and drink very, _very_ cheap beer and try to see girls in the stars."

"Did you ever succeed?"

He turns towards her as she sits on the couch, and she can't help but see the boy in him, the lanky youth proud of the vaguest stubble on his jaw, a cigarette lodged behind one ear. She can't help but feel old, heavy, weighed down by far too much these days even as he sits down beside her. "Perhaps I did, and never knew it," he says, his pants leg barely brushing her knee, as something within her soars.

Jonathan was never a great romantic, never the seducer and heartbreaker she supposes Lionel must be. Jonathan tended to stumble through life blissfully unaware of the girls who scribbled his initials on their schoolbooks, who stared at him from across university courtyards. But Lionel, though… Lionel, with that mane of hair and precisely tailored suits, knows all too well that he's the center of attention.

"Martha, I am so terribly sorry for putting you in such an awkward position this morning," he says, quiet and earnestly apologetic in a way she's never seen him. Even after their recent torments at the hands of one of his employees, his apologies to her had been framed in anger towards himself. "Inviting me here tonight was so… It touched me very deeply, and I would never want to jeopardize our friendship."

 _Our friendship_. Perhaps it is something to be valued, to be handled with care and locked away safely for the sake of preservation. She hasn't had close friendships, and certainly not with men, since she married Jonathan, and she can't quite grasp how much she would lose if she lost Lionel now – more than just her guardian at Metropolis balls, more than her able advisor on speeches and economic issues, more than simply another adult who doesn't make her feel unbelievably old and out of touch.

Perhaps it's the heater, finally having some effect, but she feels warm as her fingers find the back of his hand. "I think I'd have to say that what we have is more than a simple friendship, Lionel." Somehow she manages to say it in a resolutely calm, businesslike tone. "You've been… a rock for me. You've protected my son. You've even been prepared to risk your life for me."

He's already shaking his head. "Martha, we were put in an impossible situation, and it was entirely _my_ fault that…"

"No," she tells him, and while it feels strange to lift her hand and squeeze his arm instead, she simply can't resist the impulse. "You've been there for me. And I know that once I might have simply been an idle fantasy for you…"

"Martha, I could never think of you…"

"Once that might have been true," she continues, resolutely, if a little disappointed in his objection. As a girl Chloe's age she might have despaired of boys constantly commenting on her hair, her breasts, her legs, and any other aspect of her body they might possibly find erotic, but now she'd be rather glad for someone to tell her that she's not _entirely_ a withered, haggard old crone destined to live vicariously through her son's female friends. "But there's something more, now. There's friendship, and trust, and…"

Her fingertips touch his cheek, and she sees him swallow. It's such an oddly personal thing, feeling the strange softness of his beard, the lines of his cheekbones, and, yes, the wrinkles and scars and tiny imperfections. This close, she can still see the faint white line on his cheek from a wound he'd suffered on Black Thursday. He'd had it in this barn, then, when he'd come to find her, when he'd gathered her in his arms and held her so tightly she might have objected if she hadn't been holding him with just as much relief and desperation combined. Later, she'd made him sit in the kitchen as she cleaned his face and fed him whatever she had in the fridge.

They'd been alone, the television and radio stations not yet restored, the roads in chaos, and Clark off helping to restore order. All she could think of then was how, had he been Jonathan, they would so easily slip out of their clothes, kissing with enough violence to remind them that they were both alive. She would have pulled him, laughing, into the shower, and made love anywhere but the soft sheets of the bed.

"Kiss me," she says with dry lips, and she half expects him to disappoint her again. But, even if it's more tentative than she'd like, he leans in and presses his mouth to hers, searching, seeking, and not pulling away.

In her own idle fantasies, in these recent days when the pain of Jonathan's death has eased enough to let her think of pleasure again, he tastes of scotch and cigar smoke when she kisses him. Now, it's nothing more than wine, his beard prickling her top lip as she cups his jaw and he pulls her closer.

Her body wants him, reacting to nothing more than the closeness. It's only a kiss, even if they're both far past adolescence and worries about decorum, but she can feel her body flush beneath her clothes, the muscles in her groin tensing, wanting, anticipating. "Martha," Lionel murmurs in a growl that betrays his own arousal, and she finds herself wondering if he's already hard. She could so easily slip her hand over to his fly and discover that for herself, and simply imagining the feel of him as he kisses her throat makes her close her eyes and moan with need.

It's been so long… So long that she half suspects she should make it longer, should do what she'd intended to do only hours ago and take things slowly. There are so many arguments against being with anyone, now, and being with Lionel? Jonathan would be horrified. Disgusted. Clark might feel even worse. But they don't know who Lionel's become and, most importantly, who he's become for her. She badly needs to be held, to be touched, to be loved, if only for a few hours.

"It's all right," he's telling her, kissing her cheek, her jaw, his arms around her, stroking her hair. "Just tell me to stop."

"Don't," is all she can say. Whatever tomorrow brings, she needs this now.

High school and college had brought many opportunities for her to become an expert on the art of making out, of kissing, exploring, doing just enough that it shocked her parents when she wanted it to, but not too much that the boys thought she was easy. But, god, if Lionel thinks she's easy _now_ , the man has to have the patience of a saint.

He's kissing her as if she'll disappear, as if he needs to commit every inch of her body and every taste of her lips to memory. But she feels far weightier than stardust this evening, and the light touches of his hands on her, smoothing over her clothes, not yet quite daring to touch her breasts or slip between her thighs, make her horribly self-conscious even as she wants to see more of him.

She tugs his shirt from his pants, making it clear, if it wasn't already, that she needs more than just a goodnight kiss. He's strangely slight under layers of clothes, not a strip of fat on him even after Thanksgiving dinner. Her palm feels his skin, hot and smooth against hers, and she hates the thought of him doing the same to her, discovering her middle-aged body that has seen too many business lunches and not enough of the gym. She doesn't want his fingers to find the stretch marks from the baby she lost, which seem far more shameful than the scar from a knife wound she traces now with tentative fingertips.

They'd almost killed him in prison. She can imagine the blade slicing into him – how deep? – the blood spilling over the place where her fingers are now, hot and wet. She'd been unconscious when she lost the baby, but she imagines that same blood a violent red on her thighs. Sometimes she feels too mortally wounded even to breathe.

"Are you all right?" he asks, and she's not used to him being concerned. She'd prefer if he just acted, leaving her unable to think at all. In some ways, she'd even prefer him to be the Lionel Luthor she'd first got to know – blind and flirtatious and utterly unconcerned about anyone's feelings. If she'd succumbed to him then, she has no doubt sex would have been quick and wonderful and would have meant absolutely nothing. "Is it too cold?"

He's taken off his sweater, his shirt crumpled underneath, and she's anything but chilled. "No, I just…" This is not the time to have a heart to heart chat about her insecurities. And she does move her hand, now, feeling the bulge of him in the crotch of his pants, the warmth radiating through the material. She rubs against him with the heel of her hand, feeling him tense as he kisses her again, working away the cardigan. She'll freeze if she has to.

"You are so beautiful," he says, taking a moment to breathe, and she does the same. Oddly, even given a moment to reflect, to see herself tangled up on a mangy couch in a barn with a billionaire, it doesn't seem as absurd as it should.

One hand still in his crotch, comforted by the heat there, she begins to unbutton his shirt from the bottom up. "You need a few more good meals, Mr. Luthor," she says, unable to keep the grin from her face. "But I do like your hair."

He tosses his head back, a smiling mimicry of a shampoo ad. "Why thank you, Martha." _Mrs. Kent_ is, quite clearly, not a title either of them wish to hear.

His shirt open – no undershirt today, she thinks – she finds herself focusing on the scars rather than the fine musculature he spends hours perfecting in the gym. He has the money, and probably the vanity, for plastic surgery, so the marks aren't nearly as horrific as they once must have been. But… A bullet through his shoulder, another close to his heart. She hadn't been there for him, then, and he could have died. He's come so close so many times. After Jonathan's death she'd prided herself on having no regrets beyond the pettiest disputes. They'd taken chances. She'd defied her parents and lost her friends and career hopes by being with him. They'd adopted Clark at the risk of incurring not only police inquiries, but also extraterrestrial threats. But they'd been happy.

"You have to be more careful," she says, not even paying much attention to his erection, to the nipples hardened in cold air, the defined abs, the tension of arousal in his body. "What if Zod had… What if I'd lost you?"

"You won't lose me." And he lifts her top, pulling it up over her head. Her hair a mess, she has a few moments to try to remember which bra she had thrown on this morning, if she'd shaved her underarms, used deodorant… Somehow, this would be far easier had they just survived an alien attack, if they were battered and bruised and drenched with blood. It's a wonder she's not shaking with anxiety.

He loosens her bra with practiced ease, kissing her, easing her back onto the couch so that her head rests against one cushioned arm. The feel of his body pressing between her legs makes her buck up into him without a thought, her hands tangling in his hair. He must have had so many lovers, so many beautiful girls seeking careers or easily dazzled by money, or, quite simply, by his charm. She's had no one but Jonathan in twenty years, no one at all in months.

"When was the last time you made love?" she asks, breathless, and knows immediately from the look in his eyes that she's used the wrong term. He's instantly far away, clear brown and green made hazy by memories. Lillian. The spouse he had lost, also to a heart condition. "I'm sorry," she adds quickly, an apologetic hand to his cheek. "I didn't mean…"

He shakes away the moment. "It's been a while," he confesses. "However you look at it."

And, yes, of course, the headaches… As Jor-El's oracle, Lionel hasn't been free to have relationships with anyone but his fledgling paternal feelings for Clark. But yet… Lillian's been gone for more than a decade. Will she still think of Jonathan with whatever man is making love to her in ten years' time? In some ways, she very much hopes so.

He moves down, kissing her bare breasts, his teeth barely grazing a nipple as he suckles there, his hand occupied with stroking her other breast. She closes her eyes tightly, prepared for a wave of guilt laced with nausea at the reminder of her dead child, but this touch of his lips and tongue only sends warmth straight to her groin, her need for him increasing by the moment.

If he notices stretch marks or scars in this poor light, he says nothing as he kisses a mostly flat stomach, and finally stands up once more, tugging away her pants and underwear as she toes off her shoes.

 _The Reclining Venus_ , she names herself with a nervous internal giggle. She's not only completely, undisguisedly naked, but she's naked in a _barn_ , and whatever is left of her eighteen-year-old self is clearly too embarrassed to be relaxed. Still, Lionel is here. He can see her. And if she's too old, too fat, too damn _ugly_ , he can leave. His car's in the driveway, and she has plenty of dishes she could be washing.

His eyes lock with hers as he kicks off his shoes and peels away socks, standing barefoot on the wooden floor. Are his feet still marked with criss-cross burns? But he stands easily, and strips off his slacks, his erection large and obvious in his briefs before he casts those away too.

Somehow there's less fragility to him, naked. She can see the scars he's survived, the powerful muscles of his chest and arms, his cock hard with desire for her. For _her_.

When he settles back on the couch, every touch of theirs melding naked skin to naked skin, she feels him and accepts his need for what it is. Touching his cock, stroking it, feeling him thrust through a circle of her fingers… it's an intimacy she's missed, and a vulnerability she's desperately needed him to show.

She hasn't neatly trimmed her pubic hair recently, and certainly doesn't have one of those Brazilian wax things Lois has frequently aired her opinions on in the back of several Metropolis cabs. If he cares, there's no sign, his mouth on hers as his fingers search there, discovering her, making her moan gently at his probing touch.

"I don't have a condom," he murmurs against her cheek, his hips still moving, his thumb rubbing over her clit. "But we can still make each other feel good, if you want…"

Oh, the bastard, to bring this up now, just when she can't possibly refuse. Surely Clark must have a stash here somewhere, she thinks, just before she silences herself for even daring to think about her son's sex life at a time like this. "I'm not worried," she says, and then decides she has to amend that with, "about getting pregnant. I'm long past that."

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

He was in _prison_ , the outraged maternal part of her says. He doesn't know the meaning of monogamy. He probably has AIDS. Syphilis. Rabies. If Clark was contemplating doing this, even with his alien immune system and healing abilities, she would go through the roof. She shouldn't be swayed from reason and good sense by Lionel Luthor's hard cock.

She presses cool fingers to his lips. "Hold that thought," she says, and kisses him, getting up. Thank god they're the ones with the telescope. If the new family in the Langs' house looked in the right direction now…

At least raising a responsible son has some benefits. She finds the generic pack at the bottom of his bookbag, and tries not to even think about counting them to see how many have been used. Lionel, when she turns back, is still sitting on the couch, lazily stroking himself, looking at her with a slightly dazed smile. Oh, she really would _not_ be surprised if Chloe Sullivan charged in here at any moment, revealing that Bizarro had spiked the turkey with a Kryptonian love potion.

Were she a little more experienced, she might roll the condom on for him in some kind of seductive fashion, but hopefully they can both be adults. She stands back and watches him do it, and hopes that the moment hasn't been entirely lost.

"Come here," Lionel says, and she takes his hand once more, her hand so tiny in his, and straddles him, her knees sinking into the cushions, his cock already sliding along the length of her slit. She's wet for him, despite the unfamiliar feel of the plastic, and she wordlessly moves her hips a little, moving down, letting him slide in cleanly.

"Oh," she says, surprised by how unfamiliar it seems. His cock is thick and awkward inside her, and she's too tight, too dry for him to go deeper, her body refusing to keep up with the needs of her mind. It really has been too long.

But before she can voice any discomfort, his hand is between them, finding her moisture, stroking her clit gently, until she breathes more easily and settles into his lap. God, he's deep… deeper than Jonathan, or is it just so many months without a man that lead her to think so? She looks up to say something, and he kisses her, his hips rocking into her in a gentle rhythm, their mutual desperation having subsided into simple anticipation of what is to come.

He smoothes the hair back from her face, looking at her, truly looking – she feels the same as she did the day he asked to touch her face when he was blind, fingertips taking their time, trying to construct a mental photograph through touch alone. And she looks at him as she moves, pressing her breasts into his grateful hands, seeing the way pleasure works its way into his expression, the ways just a subtle shift in her posture can make him gasp in a breath.

"You feel… so good," she tells him, and how _stupid_ it must sound, as if she's in a badly scripted film. But, oh, _how_ good he feels now that she's slick for him, welcoming every thrust, wanting him even deeper than this.

His hand returns to her clit as her moans of appreciation come closer together, and she deliberately moves against his thumb, her body reaching for what it's been lacking for so long. " _Lionel_ ," she says in a whimper, her authoritative state senate voice utterly lost, as he makes her come, muscles clenching around him, her head thrown back, as she's wracked with pleasure she can't even comprehend.

Before she comes back to herself, she's hugging him to her tightly, and for a moment she's afraid that she won't be able to keep from weeping into his shoulder, torn with guilt and happiness. But he's rubbing her back, soothing her, and his hardness inside her soon brings her back to the present concern. "What do you need?" she asks, as if this is a service. But she'll be disappointed too if he doesn't come, if she somehow isn't enough for him.

"Shh," he says, and once he must have been a good father, rocking his son to sleep as he lays her down on the couch, making sure she's comfortable. "Let me…"

She curls her legs up around his waist, holding him close as he fucks hard into her, needing his body heat, feeling the huff of his breath on her face as every thrust rocks her body. She'd thought he might be quick, but he lasts a long time, enough to bring her back to the point of deep arousal herself, her belly flooding with warmth.

He comes with his eyes open, a bare moment before she does, overcome with the force of his climax. His face flushed, and sweat in his hair, her name is on his lips where she'd expected "God" or some generic cry he could use on all of his girlfriends. And he stays, afterwards, falling into her, grasping her tightly, his face buried in her shoulder. She'd never taken Lionel for the needy type, not even after a few glasses of wine, but she's grateful for this.

 _Thank you_ springs to mind as she strokes his hair, feels the muscles of his back. But no, that would be wrong, and she suspects he needed this as much as she did. As much as they both will in the future.

He lifts his head with a good-humored groan, and kisses her cheek. "Oh, Martha, Martha…"

She feels him withdraw, and shifts position slightly to watch him as he removes the condom, dumping it in Clark's wastepaper basket. So. That'll be one of many conversations in the morning.

"Do you want me to leave?" he asks, naked before her, pushing back his mess of hair.

She's so totally at ease, lying here, her body content and satisfied, her mind overcome with the thought of him. She stretches out a hand. "Do you want to go?"

He finds a blanket that smells of horses, and they go to sleep together, she curled up in his arms with no thought for the hour, or the next morning's meetings, or even what she might say to Clark.

Lionel talks in his sleep, she discovers – mumbled fragments lost in her hair. She hears numbers, strings of them, and, once, her name.

She strokes his arm lazily, watching tiny golden hairs prick up at her touch. She owns his body now, and he hers – there are no boundaries.

He nuzzles her neck when she shifts position. "Love you," he mutters and, when she turns, he's dead asleep once more.

In the morning, when everything is bright and clear, she might ask him if he was dreaming of Lillian while she makes him breakfast and tries to see if any of Clark's old clothes might not look too entirely ridiculous on him. She might.

Now, though, she hugs him closer, and tries to forget that this night will ever end.


End file.
